What Do You Say?
by Je Sono Aka
Summary: A collection of random Hetalia! oneshots that are all unique and original, ranging from humour to friendship to angst. Want something you haven’t read? Come here! Recommendations needed Ep.5-(angst, Scotland) Scotland comes home late one stormy night. A conversation with England turns to being abused by England, Ireland, and Wales, Scotland runs off into the heavily raining night.
1. (India & Russia & North Korea)Asian Trio

**Authors Note: So, I was doing a lot of research on the foreign relations of a bunch of countries, mainly India after reading so many Prussia and Bollywood fics. So, I learned, India's best ally is Russia (how does the US feel?) and India is also trade partners with North Korea, both countries having an embassy in the other country (again- how does the US feel?). **

**Summary: It all happened at a summit. Or, the unlikely friendship of India, Russia, and North Korea.**

**P.S- in my mind, India is kinda like England with some of his behavioral characteristics. North Korea doesn't have an official character, so he's kinda like South Korea with his eccentric personality, but he's also kinda like Romano with a sort of friendly roughness. What should his human name be?**

The Summit is being held in New Delhi this time. The Summits are rather. . .erratic. The Nation's bosses have nice schedules on when to meet and what it's about, and on those day's, the Summits are a bit more orderly, for the Nation's personified. But, such as today, the Summit is being held because a majority of over half the nations want a Summit, rather it be out of boredom, to spite someone, to get a come-back, to acknowledge Sealand, or to actually address a topic. And India volunteered to hold the Summit, because it was a voluntary one and he'd have to arrange less food than if he had to hold the real deal.

So India quickly walks around the meeting room in his capitol building, placing aluminum placards with engraved names and a small flag colored on infront of each of the chairs, arranging the tea stand and snack cart in the corner, quickly double-checking with the catering company, and finally leaning against the wall, using the scarf of his kurta (unisex traditional Indian outfit) to wipe the seat off his face and neck. Today, he has a yellow scarf with silver embroidered thread, paired with a cream kurta top with gold designs and white pants with brown shoes. Cloth, of course. He wouldn't want to wear the hide of a poor cow. Oh yeah, cows. He's seeing less of them on the streets since they've been moved. But there's still so much trash, and the stray animals are eating those. How to get rid of the trash? And then his homeless population proble-

"Ah! It looks like I am the first one to come. Kem cho, India?" India jumps at the voice, and then slightly cringes at the accented Gujarati, but he breaks into a grin, exhaustion and worry fading away as he spies his friend Russia, chocolate eyes nearly popping out of his sockets. It's Russia, still with his pink stained scarf, but now dressed in a light blue andsilver embroidered kurta with white pants rather than his long coat and wjatever he has under it, a thumb-wide red powdered oval on his brow.

"Russia!" India beams, taking long steps to take his friends hand in both of his, shaking it. "You've been learning Gujarati?" Russia smiles, eyes sweetly closing.

"Nyet." He says with his- in India's opinion- soothing, childish voice. "I just asked the air-hostess, and I forgot if it was Hindi or not." He suddenly looks worried. "Did I say something different? I think it means 'hello'." India pats the taller man's shoulder.

"'Hello', 'how are you', same thing. I don't just speak Hindi." Russia relaxes. "But I never thought I'd see the day you wear a kurta! You look rater nice in it." Russia blushes, adjusting his scarf. They've known each other for centuries now, and India always takes the chance to make Russia loosen up a bit. He did the same during the cold war, helping his friend out. Although, that did strain his relation with America, the poor child, but after the cold war, America had popped by his house, same as usual, eyes bright while he holds a flyer for the latest Bollywood movie.

"Thank you, India." Says Russia. And then something clicks in India's head. A click so loud, it might of echoed in the still empty conference room.

"Wait. Why are you wearing a kurta?" And then the door bangs open, and for the second time that hour, India's neck hurts from the speed of it turning. There stands a slightly tanned man, with waist length braided black hair, a powdered red oval on his brow like Russia, and sunglasses. He wears a blood red kurta with gold and orange designs with black pants and black slippers. His poise is perfect, and he grins with all white teeth, whipping his shades off and cocking a hip.

"Haha- ahn-nyeong, fools!" He says with a smirk, strutting forward until he's next to Russia, patting the much taller nation on the back. "Ah. So you all copied my look?"

"I am sorry, but kurta's are not made in Korea." Says Russia. North Korea wrinkles his nose.

"Psh. I'm not like my idiot brother. I have brain cells." Then he grins. "Asian trio united!" He says, punching his fist into the air above his head. India bites s lower lip and shakes his head. Russia frowns.

"Russia is part of Europe."

"Ah, but the majority of Russia is in Asia" says North Korea sagely. India tips his head back, rolling his eyes. "What do you think, oh other member of the Asian trio?" India tips his head forward again, smiling.

"Its actually Eurasia, so both of you are right. So, technically, Russia is considered a part of Asia." North Korea grins. "Don't get cocky, North. So why are you dressed in a kurta?" North Korea grins.

"Wanted to get closer to the culture, yah know? Experience this meeting in all of it's...Indian-ness." India sighs.

"You're not even on the guest list."

"Last minute change-of mind." There had to be a reason behind it. Brown eyes meet brown eyes, unblinking, until North Korea groans. "I told Russia I would come if he dress's in a kurta and keeps South away from me." India just blinks.

"You two can be so childish sometime." Russia smiles.

"Da! That is why you should become one with mother Russia!" India's eye twitches for a moment.

"I'm sorry again, my friend, but I must decline." Russia keeps on smiling.

"You can keep Belarus away from me!"

"I'm sorry, no."

"You can marry Belarus!"

". . .no."

"You can have a Bollywood movie about my family!"

"*groan* No." Meanwhile, North has already reached the tea stand, sipping some chai, listening.

"Yo, India. Why haven't you become Communist yet?" India feels like banging his head on the wall. Side effects of having one communist and one formerly communist friend.

"I'm fine with being a democracy. And there's too many people to manage with Communism." Russia nods. He's experienced both sides, and he honestly doesn't know which one is worst and which one is better. He has realized his past flaws of wanting everyone to become Communist, but he still can't shake the habit of asking everyone to become part of Russia.

"I agree with India." North slumps.

"But you used to agree with me!"

"I have matured."

And then the door bangs open before North Korea can reply.

"Hey, India! The hero is here!" And then the trio just stare at the light brown haired young man, who gasps before breaking into a run, briefcase wielded above his head like a weapon. "DON'T WORRY INDIA, I'LL SAVE YOU FROM THOSE COMMI'S!"

"AMERICA, NO! STOP! HEAL!" follows a loudening English voice.

"Kolkolkol." Says Russia, an aura surrounding him and his pipe somehow in his hand.

"Aya." Snorts North Korea, pulling out a water balloon bazooka because getting wet in a humid environment is worst than radiation.

Yup. Looks like the Meeting has begun ahead of schedule.


	2. (Sweden) Lord of the Empire of IKEA

**Summary: It is well know amongst all scholars of Hetalia that Russia goal in life is to, basically, create a global empire, uniting all nations.**

**Or:**

**In which Sweden has almost created a global empire under the flag of IKEA, and the nations wonder what happens every-time a new IKEA opens. AKA Sweden is IKEA.**

"Crikey, mate- isn't this going to be awesome?" Grins Australia, turning to the nation beside him, who happens to be Denmark. The blond smiles, patting the younger nations head.

"Aw yeah- I wonder how Sweden would of felt like." Denmark elbows Norway who's next to him. "Aye- does Sweden know?" Norway shakes his head.

"Don't think so." He turns to Finland. "Finland- does Sweden know?" Finland looks so tired, but there's a gleam in his eyes.

"Nope!" He says, popping the 'P'. "I did everything I could! I blocked the news, I distracted him, I let Sealand bug him. I even let him call me 'wife' so he could wonder why. So, no." Denmark looks giddy.

"Aw yeah~ let's go!"

"Hey Awesome number two- what's going on?" It's Prussia now.

"He doesn't know." Denmark whispers loudly.

"Oh, who? What are we talking about?" Says America, bouncing over, the Awesome Trio now complete.

"Today!" Says Prussia. "The reason we're in Australia for a reason other than survival games!" America gasps.

"Huh? Oooooooooooooh. Are you saying. . .he doesn't know?" Denmark shakes his head, grinning.

"He's going to brood for days! He's going to cry so much and Finland will get to him and comfort him and be appreciated, and he won't be gloating and maybe I'll actually get him drunk!"

Today was a special day. It was cold, yes. A cold May 18, 2020 in Sydney, Australia. And why was it a special day?

Because Sweden wasn't here.

Sweden wasn't here, but other nations beside the Nordics were, for once. Including the Nordics, there was Australia, New Zealand, England, America, Canada (Norway was friends with him), Hong Kong, Taiwan, India, Prussia, Austria, Hungary, Germany, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, France, and Spain. They were all infront of a large building. And what was so special about this day and the building?

Today, a new IKEA was opening. And for the first time in history, Sweden wasn't there. Sweden, who knew the prices of every piece of furniture, it's name, how to assemble it; the recipes of all the meals served in the cafeteria. Sweden who had been buds with the founder and would sometimes live in an IKEA for a few nights every few months was not here. This had all been planned. The government had even talked last minute to this IKEA's manager to specially allow the nations to enter the IKEA a day before the public.

And there it is, the grand blue and yellow building with it's spotless windows and smooth pavement.

"Do the honors." Says Australia, nodding to Denmark, England behind him, kinda happy that the intimidating Swede wasn't here.

"With pleasure." Says the blue-eyed blond. He steps towards the automatic doors, gleeing. For once, it wasn't Sweden that would be the first one to officially step into a new IKEA. "Oh yeah."

When the doors open, a pleasant burst of heat hits the closest nations, and Denmarks, faces.

And then the blood curling screams begin.

.

.

SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDEN

.

.

It was a nice day. Denmark was out somewhere; Finland, Norway, and Iceland where in Australia for something. The dog was with the neighbor, Sealand was being babysat by Wales.

Nice and peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

He's in his pajama's still- dark blue pants, a loose light blue t-shirt, and his glasses still on the bedside table upstairs. He's reclining in a chair he got from IKEA, right next to the window, sunlight streaming through. The curtains were torn by the dog and scribbled on by Sealand, so now its just a seven-foot long bare, iron rod on top of the window. He needs to go to IKEA and get some nice curtains.

And then he feels it.

It's like a burst of electricity. Usually, it's invigorating. It makes him happy, it makes him high, it makes him feel absolutely wonderful, as if he were a helium balloon. But not this time.

With a snap of his legs, the chair is un-reclined and he's sitting ramrod strait, knuckles white as long fingers clutch the armrests. Blue eyes narrow. His teeth grit together, and pain flashes in his heart. The pain that a child gets when he goes to get a toy but there's only one left and his annoying brother takes it instead without warning.

"No." He whispers. "NO!" He roars. In a blink of an eye, the Swede is standing up, hair wild. He reaches an arm up, jumping, and he tears off the curtain pole off the wall, a perfectly balanced weapon, clutched in his hands. And with the teleportation power nations can only summon in the most dire of events, such as war, Sweden teleports to Australia, lips twitching to pull back into a snarl.

.

.

WONDERFUL WONDERFUL SWEEEEEEDEEEEEEEEN

.

.

"AAAAAAAAAAH!" Screams more than one nation. Denmark has already stepped foot on the glorious, polished wooden floor, turning around in confusion.

"Huh? What's wrong?" He then see's America, who's gone pale. And then Russia, who's being supported by a poor China, face turning blue. Finland is trembling almost as much as Latvia usually does.

"D-d-d-den-d-den-m-m-mark, j-just d-don't t-turn a-around." Denmark raises an eyebrow.

"Why? Is there a robot zombie?"He knows something is wrong when he see's that Switzerland has dropped his gun and Prussia hasn't made a sound.

"So you think you could beat me." Denmark gulps and turns around. There, in all his rumpled glory, id Sweden. Tall, with the air conditioner gently moving his messy hair and his loose shirt, bare feet expertly positioned on the ground, and a curtain pole taller than Russia in his hands, held like a weapon and with the confidence that it's as deadly as Denmark's own axe.

"Uh..." manages Denmark, taking a step back with the other nations. Sweden grins darkly.

"I am Berwald Oxenstierna, a viking who sailed the coldest sea's, killed the most ruthless people. I am the personification of Sweden, and-" he takes a step forward, turning sideways and drawing his arms back like he's about to swing at Denmark, eyes looking bluer without his glasses. The nations flinch, as if all of them were going to be hit. "I. . ." All the lights in the IKEA turn on to their full brightness and music starts to okay from the speakers. He holds the pole out with one hand, like a circus ring master at the entrance of a circus, beckoning the people in. "-Am also the personification of the United Empire of IKEA, and I welcome you all to our newest addition, the Australian IKEA! We have Swedish meatballs freshly made on floor two, and we have a first-five-nation special discount in living room furniture, so do help yourself." Most of the nation's jaws drop in shock.

Most of them.

"Damn it- I was really hoping he wouldn't do this again." Denmark grumbles. Sweden steps forward and slings an arm around Denmark, eyes dilated as if he were on something.

"Don't be angry. I can show you the world of IKEA, and you will be happy again!"

"I gave up after the forty-third IKEA." Says Finland. And all the nations enter, Switzerland hauling Liechtenstein onto his back as he runs to the living room furniture section, Austria on his tail.

Yup.

This was definitely an IKEA.

**1\. So. . .Sweden. At this point, he's become IKEA-personified as well. And his personality changes at the opening of every IKEA, and he welcomes everyone in. Thats why the Nordics didn't want him there- he may seem nice, but he becomes hyperdrived on IKEA facts and stuff and he becomes a different person, essentially. He hugged Denmark. That would creep Denmark out so much. So...yup. The ending was so weird.**

**2\. Yeah. The second half of this entire thing just appeared after I figured out fifteen minutes ago that I'm mildly scared of cockroaches after one appeared in my bathroom.**

**AN: Recommendations, please!**


	3. (France & England) Trompette

**\- I don't hold Hetalia, the image used, or any of its stuff- **

**So basically, this is all just a random collection of Hetalia one-shots or multiple shots upon how I feel. So no update issues! France is first!**

**P.S- PM me for any suggestions. I'm good with ANYONE!!! (Um...no smut please) **

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**Summary: The word "trumpet" comes from the French word "trompe". When the modern trumpet was invented, not many nations were too fond of the loud instrument. . .except for one.**

**P.S- there are too many piano and violin fics- give band some credit. **

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If you were to ask any nation what instrument they would think France would play, if any, they would probably say the accordion, which is correct. Most, if not all, nations didn't think France to be like Austria— a lover of music, of the unspoken messages it conveys. They would say France was more of a musician for the heart, so not a musician at all. Just someone who like love and plays the accordion due to the historical link it has to his country.

Well. . .he doesn't just play the accordion. He plays one more instrument, one that most people wouldn't think it's music to be "lovely" or "beautiful", except for those who play it.

Its a nice day in the less urbanised area of France. There are light clouds dotting the sky, letting the sun through while making it cooler. The birds are chirping, and its not lunch yet. The smell of bread lightly wafts through the air, twisting the leaves on trees and the petals off of flowers. It was a really nice day. And if you thought you knew France well (cough cough- England- cough cough- BTT), you would probably think he's drinking some wine or hitting on some girls or streaking around his house.

Nah.

For France, today wasn't really a good day. Yes, he helped some tourists find their destination and feed a person on the street, but there had also been an EU meeting in Paris. He had gotten yelled at by England, Romano and Ukraine, had gotten "kolkolkol"ed at by Russia, and he had left his briefcase there because he was so frustrated after England had called him an "uncultured fool".

So now he sits in a small room of his large home, face illuminated by the light streaming through a large window. He wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his jacket thrown in a corner. He has on blue pants, and an amber ribbon tying his hair back. In front of him is a stand with an assortment of papers on both it amd the small table beside it. In France's manicured hands, knuckles red from having been clenched so much, is an instrument. The light catches on it, reflecting the world in light gold and rose metal and silver. And when he raises it to his lips, blue eyes closed, his lips gently blow a puff of war, air into it, his lips moulding into the the mouthpiece.

If a nation were asked what instrument France would like other than the accordion, they would probably say something like a violin. France actually dislikes violins- they're overaged and easy to become good at.

No. France loves the trumpet.

And almost know one knows that, and he wants to keep it that way.

The motes come out at a medium tempo, going up and down with triplets adding a waltz-like feel to it. He feels like dancing. France remembers when his little Mathieu would sit on a chair beside him, giggling as he'd press the buttons on the valves, France making the air fluctuate between hot and cold to make the little boy giggle more. And when he became a bit older, he would do that less, instead sitting there and listening, humming, or occasional dancing.

Those were the memories he liked to play on the trumpet.

But there were also the darker ones. When he'd play a march with a rough, out-of-tune march, remembering the revolution and the wars and the death and betrayals. The young purple eyes that returned as older eyes, the green orbs hardened by betrayal, the darker green ones dull with loss, and red ones hazed with pain.

So every time he's feeling down, he doesn't go out and sleep with a random human. He doesn't even like sleeping with a stranger! No, he would just retreat to this sunlit or moonlit room and play his beloved trumpet, the one he wished he could of played instead of the unsatisfying fiddle that Jean would dance to.

This was his little secret...but is it?

He's too enveloped in a transposed Nocturne by Chopin he had asked from a confused Austria that he didn't hear the footsteps. He didn't notice how his door cracked open little by little until it creaked. He ignores the creaks for a few moments, ending the song on an impressive high note with a vibrato. He gently places the metal beauty in his lap, turning his head.

"Mathieu, est-ce vous?" His pulse starts to quicken as he realises that it probably isn't the quiet nation. A cough.

"Um...I'm afraid not." England steps through the doorway, France's briefcase clutched in a hand, his other hand rubbing his arm nervously, cheeks tinted red.

"Salut, Anglaterre." France says easily. England's eyes land on the trumpet in his lap. "I'm sorry I left my briefcase. I'm assuming you are 'ere to return it?" Englands cheeks turn redder.

"Um, y-yeah." He stutters, placing it next to the doorway. Now that his hands are free, he nervously twists them.

"Are you leaving now?" Says France. England's eyes widen, shocked at the others forwardness.

"Um, no. I mean, if you want me to, then of course, but. . .can you okay some more?" France elegantly raises an eyebrow.

"Quoi?" England's blush remains, but he straitens up, smoothening the black buisness jacket he wears.

"I came in to return your briefcase after you stormed out because, to be honest, I felt b-bad." France smiles lightly.

"Honhonhon. I always did know you cared."

"Shut up." The shorter man mumble. "Anyway, your door was unlocked so I helped myself in, and I heard the music and followed it. I've been here for about twenty minutes, and it was quite lovely. So. . . I would appreciate it if you could play some more."

"Because you asked, d'accord." England relaxes, walking next to France, leaning against the wall.

"When did you learn?" France shrugs.

"I think it was before the nineteen hundreds. Your brother, Ireland, he showed one to me. I thought it beautiful, so I bought one and I learned." England hums in acknowledgement.

"So what will you play?" France thinks, eyes glinting.

"Hmm... Amérique showed me this traditional American song...I think it vas called something like "America"." England nods.

"Is it a nice song?"

"Eh." Says the blue eyed nation. And he raises the trumpet to his lips, and plays the first few notes of a song that sounds like Englands anthem, "God Save the Queen".

Then he realises it is his anthem. . .that America stole.

"THAT BLOODY CHILD!" and the beautiful sounds of the trumpet is replaced with laughter and yelling before all there is is laughter.

Hungary is happy she bugged that house. She can show Austria now!

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**AN: Ive been thinking someone not as loved next...who feels like Australia, Turkey, or Netherlands?**


	4. (Germany & Prussia) Favour

**I decided to make Dresses and Secrets into it's own story, like the Lord of IKEA, except I removed it from this collection. Read Dresses and Secrets if you want Australia!whump.**

**I just made this real quick because I wanted to just update this to make up for removing Dresses and Secrets. I have no idea what I wrote. AN- I don't support the theory of France killing HRE**

_The wind is blowing across the grassy field, and he can just make out the trees in the distance. There's dirt and tears in his left eye, his cheek pressed against the ground. The sun is shining, but it's so cold cold cold and exhaustion of incredible levels seeps through his bones._

_"NEIN! Nein nein nein nein!" He is suddenly lifted off of the ground, and he's enveloped in warmth, but that warmth eventually feels less and less warm. "No no no, don't do this to me DON'T DO THIS TO ME!" There are sobs, and something is clutching at his shoulders, a foreign wetness on his upper back, something stroking his head. He moves his head, snuggling into the warmth, fear flooding his veins._

_"B-bruder" he says in a soft, gurgling voice. The warmth pulls away a bit, and he's looking into bloodshot, exhausted red eyes, filling with unimaginable amounts of grief, stark white hair streaked with so much blood and grime that it no longer is pure white. "G-gibby, it hurts. G-gott, it hurts so much." He doesn't want to hurt. Ludwig wishes that he never rushed into battle, that he listened to Italy. Anything to take away the hurt from the face of his older bruder, the teen- almost a man- who raised him._

_"NO!" His voice breaks. "Ludwig, please. D-don't leave me." Ludwig meets Prussia's eyes, blue eyes with fading life meeting red ones. Tall and short. Young and old. Blond and white. Red and blue. Their differences make their bond stronger._

_Living and dying._

_"G-Gilbert. . .h-hold me, bitte. I d-don't want to be alone. Bitte." And Gilbert holds him, letting out a heart breaking, broken scream. And when he sits there with the body for hours, he screams when the body is taken to be worried. He refuses to move, and even his king doesn't dare approach him. He stays there for days. A week. Two weeks. Three weeks of being unmoving, not drinking, not eating, not relieving himself. And when Francis and Antonio had come, with a sack holding a blanket, food, water, and clean clothes, Gilbert just breaks down again, screaming and sobbing and crying and pounding his dirty, torn-gloved hands into the ground, breaking skin, forming bruises, breaking fingers. And just like he had done to Ludwig, France and Antonio held him. In a tight embrace of the love of the closest friends, he breaks. And he heals, but never completely, the cracks are still there. Even when his baby bruder comes back- same name, same personality, but missing his memories. And even though they trickle back, unnoticed, Ludwig is still whole. Even with the World Wars, the Holocaust. He's whole._

But Gilbert isn't_._

_——————————_

With a snap, Germany's eyes snap open. It's the middle of the night, no reason to be awake. But he had a dream. A dream of a grassy field, he thinks? Feeling so cold, a bone deep fear. He felt. . .warmth. And tears. And regret and remorse.

And it all comes to him. That entire dream and the memories that accompany it. He can nearly feel the soft wind on his skin, the bite of the cold. The tears on his shoulder and the trembling fingers running through his bloodied hair.

Those eyes. Those broken, red eyes. He always through his brother's eyes look like that, those emotional orbs. He had thought he had never seen them broken. Not during his dissolution, the Holocaust. Not during the World Wars or coming back from over the Wall. And now he realises:

He thought he never saw Prussia broken because every time the older man looked at him, he would become broken.

And now he knows why.

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It was one of those nights again. One of those nights filled with lightning cracking and his skin burning. One of those nights filled with blood on his hands and his throat torn from screaming. He trembles as he sits up in his bed, enveloped in darkness, spare for the light from the digital clock on his bedside table.

One thirty AM. Good. West will be asleep.

The tears fall down his face, faster and faster. Silent and salty. The sniffs, not making a sound. Choking back the sobs and squeezing his eyes shut, wrapping the wool blanket around his shoulders and clutching his skinny legs to his chest, burying his face in his knees.

It's one of those nights. . .

Except it isn't.

"Prussia? Was. . . Gilbert?" Oh no. Oh no no no no no. No. No! Je doesn't want him to be here. Why is he here? He never came when he had been like this before. When he had had his first episode decades ago, biting down on his own hand hard enough to draw blood so that his screams wouldn't his brother up. And now he comes. When he doesn't want to.

His head says he doesn't want him to be here, but his heart yearns.

So he opens his eyes, blinking away the tears, squinting against the light that floods through the door. There's Ludwig, in a white tanktop and sweatpants, hair disheveled and eyes concerned and a slight look of pain. Gilbert tries to smile. Oh, he tries so hard. Anything to wipe that look of pain off of his brother's face, the brother who held the same spot in his heart as a father would their darling child. But he's pretty sure it looks like a grimace. Or like he's about to cry, which he is.

"H-hey Lutz." He manages, swallowing down the lump in his throat. It returns. "A-aren't you supposed to be s-sleeping?" Ludwig leaves the door open so the hallway light floods in, but he steps forward, wringing his hands together.

"I, um, had a dream. And a wanted to check on you." Gilbert nods.

"A nightmare, th-then? Vell, I-I'm okay- doing awesome! Y-you can go back to bed now." Gilbert flinches at the amount of wavers in his voice. "Your probably tired. You do have work. Go to bed."

"Nein." Ludwig says. "My...dream. It was more like a memory and a realization. You lied to me, Gilbert." Gilbert's back stiffens, eyes widening, the tears holding for once.

"Was?"

"You're not 'okay', your not 'awesome'. You just want me to believe that. My first...death, it scarred you. More than I knew. Und. . .everything that came after, everything you did for me...it broke you."

"What do you mean?" Prussia sighs, rubbing his face and wiping his tears. Germany rubs the back of his neck.

"It's okay to ask for help, every once in a while. It does not mean you are weak. All my life, you were the strong one. You helped me, through everything. And. . .I want to return the favour." Gilbert blinks. And like an anvil, the exhaustion hits him. All at once. The physical and mental exhaustion of everything. He may not be have his own land anymore, but he's still a Nation. He can be sneaky. He takes some of his brothers work, knowing it will let both of them sleep better. He walks around Germany, looking out for anything he can help with.

"Okay." He says. He moves over on the bed, patting the space beside him. Silently, Ludwig turns off the hallway light, leaving the door open. He climbs into bed, right next to Gilbert, and lies down, pulling some of the blanket over himself. He faces Gilbert, and in the faint light of the digital clock, he see's his brothers light trembles and the lights red shine on his hair. It all comes naturally, then. Ludwig moves closer and reaches an arm out below the blanket, pulling Gilbert closer to him, holding the man against his chest, an arm on his back and his other wrapping around his head, holding it to his chest.

"D-danke," says Gilbert, and he starts crying again, tears soaking tank top, like his tears had done to his shoulders those many years ago. Ludwig just holds him close, patting his back, just wanting to do what his brother did for him for so long. Eventually, they both fall asleep. And when they wake up, they just stay in bed, holding each other, content with the peace.


	5. (Scotland) I Care - Part 1

**I was in the mood for some Scotland angsr. TW for verbal and emotional abuse, abuse, and references to torture. Not geographically accurate.**

**Summary: (I suck at summaries) Scotland really does care for his brothers, but they don't really see it. And everything just builds and builds up until Scotland comes home late one night after helping improve his brother's economy. But England gets angry at his later arrival, and his yells bring Ireland and Wales down, and soon Scotland is at their mercy and England snaps, saying something that causes Scotland to run off into a raging storm.**

**Scotland - Alister**

**England - Arthur**

**Ireland - Patrick**

**Wales -Willam**

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It was raining and it was so cold. The wind wash harsh and howling, the rain needles that wanted to bruise and break his skin. The rain drenching his simple white cotton shirt and dark blue plants, turning them into weights. There is so much rain, he can barely see anything except for the trees that he sometimes runs into. His teeth have stopped chattering, but his body shivers violently, arms wrapped around his midsection. And he just walks, bare feet cut and swelling from the walking and the rough ground. Mud squelches through his toes, and his knees buckle, making him collapse on the ground next to a tree, hitting his head against the trunk. The leaves give him a little bit of shelter, and he curls up against the trunk, the tears silently falling down his face with the rain.

Why did he do that. . .

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_Flashback_

_The wind was howling and the rain was falling hard. There was forest all around for about six miles, and the. The outskirts of a town before it started to blend into the city of London. But in the center of that forest was a large clearing, where a stone manor-castle was built, with a beautiful garden and a gravel driveway._

_This was the home of the personifications of the four Britannic countries- Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England._

_It is night, the moon halfway lit up and the rainclouds blocking most of its light. England sits in the living room by the staircase to the second floor, where the bedrooms are. He has the room lights and there was a book opened in his lap, but he never read it that night. Ireland and Wales are asleep- have been for a while. But he's waiting for one person, annoyance replaced with concern in his mind. Scotland. His older brother hasn't come home yet, and England never saw him that day since the redhead had left the trade meeting with the north African, Middle Eastern, and Oceanic countries in the middle of a proposition by Egypt._

_"He's here" a fairy saws, flying by Englands face. The blond nods, green eyes focusing on the rooms entryway. He hears the sounds of wind and rain become louder and then muted again. 'He's in the house' England thinks. He crosses one leg over the other, clasping his hands together, face going neutral. And then he comes in, and England tries to hold in the shock._

_There is Scotland, his boots and lower pant legs wet. His briefcase in his hand, and the man doesn't even seem to notice his younger brother in the arm chair. His back is to the blond, and his hair is disheveled. He puts the briefcase on the ground, kicking off his boots. He throws his necktie and the two white straps that cross his upper body over his shirt onto the ground. He turns around, hand rubbing at his face, but freezes when he sees England. The blond huffs._

_"Took you long enough." Scotland merely blinks, and England can't help but notice the darkness under his eyes and the paleness of his skin._

_"Why're yah still awake?" He says. "Its well past midnight."_

_"I can say the same to you." Says the Englishman. "What were you doing? Out drinking?"_

_"Yah could've gone tah bed." The Scot says, green eyes looking so tired. "And what if I went tah the pub? It's mah life!" England frowns. What was he Scotland doing? He clearly hadn't been drinking, so why lie? And then the conversation continued, England standing up. Scotlands volume had only slightly increased, while Englands had turned into full out yelling, Ireland and Wales even rushing down. And then even they joined in, teaming up with England and yelling at Scotland. About anything they had against their older brother who raised them when he himself had only been a child, things ranging from physical looks, his behavior, his accent. And then England, he had just lost it. He had gone into an emotional beatdown, and the words had escaped before he could stop them ,the rant ending with "you, Alister Kirkland" he had seethed, "people care about the country of Scotland, but nobody cares for Alister Kirkland. Nobody can care for the worthless excuse of a person you think yourself to be. No one cares." And silence had fallen, and Arthur's eyes had widened, realizing what he had just said. Even Wales and Irelands seething looks had fallen off. Alister just stood there, slouched and looking so broken. This wan't the strong nation of Scotland, the cocky, fiery spirited man who loved to tease and who didn't like his siblings. That last bit was a lie. That's what everyone thought. But it had to be true. Now there was only a tired, shocked, broken man, who's life seems to have fractured and shattered. His mouth slightly opens before closing. He seems so lifeless, all of his pretense of calm leaving, now looking like a lost, kicked puppy that was lying on the streets._

_"I...see..." he says, and that Scottish accent is gone, replaced by a perfect English accent that they can just make out from his soft, barely audible voice. His bright green eyes are cast down, tears gathering. and his trembling hands with their ever-present black gloves smoothen down the front of his shirts. He takes a shaky breath."I'm sorry, then." The other three Kirkland's just stare, faces turning into expressions of horror._

_"Scotland, I-" but the redhead has already turned around, and with a single moments hesitation, he's running. The others are seconds too late._

_"Alister!" Yells out Patrick, first to break out of the shock. The older man has reached the door, and has quickly undone the locks and opened the door, front already splattered by the rain. Patrick reaches out and grabs the side of the running mans jacket, stopping him. Patrick feels lost. He's never seen Scotland cry before, even when he's rescued him from torture or picked him from the field of battle; when he broke the news that mother was gone, when he was lying on the bed during a natural disaster. His eyes had only turned wet when any of his brothers had been harmed, but now Patrick see's a tear roll down the man's face and he knows it's not rain._

_"Alister" he whispers, again, almost pleadingly. But the taller man simply shakes his head, his hair bright against the darkness of the storm outside. But with a twist, the man has escaped the jacket and is running, Ireland left with only a jacket in his hand, which he drops. He wants to run after his brother, but he needs to be smart. So he grabs an umbrella and a flashlight, and so does Arthur and Willam and then the three run out into the storm._

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And Alister lies on the ground, shivering stopped as hypothermia has set in. His breathing hiccups and chokes, a chill and weariness setting into his body. He slides down the side of the tree, the wet bark scraping the side of his face before that side of his face rests on the mud.

'I'm sorry' he thinks. 'I really do care' he thinks, regretting that his brothers never knew that. Everything bad that ever happened to them was his fault, but everything bad that happened to him was so that they wouldn't have to take it. He takes the pain for them when he can. He lets their politicians let out their frustrations on him instead of them. He secretly does their work. He cleans the house. He frees their schedules. He's given his life for theirs, and they didn't even know it. . .

He was late that night because he had talked to the UK governments economic leaders and had confinced them to modify the trade deal from the crappy, sad agreement it had been before and had changed so that it benefitted the the three countries better while not cheating off the other nations. And if it didn't work, Scotland would be the one to blame. He had come back home with more hidden bruises and cuts that nobody would ever know about, just so that his brothers would benefit, and he took the fall.

Instead they hated him. That means he's failed. As a person and a nation and a brother, he's broken the promise he made to his dying mother and and and. . .

He's failed.

Why is he still alive?

And he falls unconscious.


	6. Update

So, um, hey readers! It's been a long time ince I've update _anything _on . So, first of all, all of my fics on this platform were finger-tapped-out by me on an ipad mini, so my fingers hurt after a while and updates were slow, chapters had a lot of errors, and the quality honestly sucked. So I took the cowards path and just stopped posting. Well, a few months ago, my dad got me a laptop! And I forgot all about my fanfic account because I've been using AO3 (username: Kono_Rohan_Da) and posting fics on that. But now I will, in the foreseeable future, be updating and editing and even re_writing_ some of my incomplete fics! So, if I've left any of you at a cliff hanger, I'm so sorry. If you want to know what would of happened, email me at rohan. and I'll send you a thorough summary of what would happens after where I left off, because it's still iffy if I'll actually update any of my fics on sincd its been so long.

-JeSonoAka


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